


The Troublesome Witness

by obstinate_as_an_allegory



Series: Troublesome Witness [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2672051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinate_as_an_allegory/pseuds/obstinate_as_an_allegory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Somebody must stay with Constance,’ d’Artagnan said in a slightly strangled tone, hovering anxiously as they prepared to leave. She flinched. He was right of course, because if those men came back and tried to attack her again she would be glad to be in company with a musketeer, but God help her it was painful to be in the same room as him and not touch him; she hadn’t looked at the corner he stood in because if she did she was afraid she would not be able to look away.</p><p>Constance is targeted by a Spanish agent when she accidentally overhears information about spy networks. The musketeers try to help her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Constance had not seen a musketeer in a month.

She suspected their hands behind the sudden summons to work for the queen, a commission of such prestige and value that her husband had near wept for joy, but none of them had owned up to it, or said a word to her at all. She understood that they were giving her space, giving d’Artagnan the sort of clumsy fraternal support which passed for sensitivity among musketeers. She understood, but she missed them terribly. Losing d’Artagnan was like a hollow in her chest and like a physical pain; losing the other three idiots and all the dangerous intrigue they trailed around with them made her life seem pale and narrow and trivial and false.

In the market, she went about her business as brightly as usual, trying to lose herself in daily routine. It was, perhaps, for this reason that the man in the dark cloak was close enough to grasp her wrist before she had even seen him.

‘Madame Bonacieux, come with me,’ said an accented voice in her ear, and she shuddered at the smell of his body and the heat of his breath on her face. She tried to recoil but he was holding her wrist, and as she wriggled she realised that there was a pistol under his cloak and it was pointed at her breast.

‘Where?’ she said wildly, casting around for some sign of Jacques, or of anyone she knew.

‘Never mind that, I know someone who wants to speak to you,’ he said, intimately close again, a teasing note in his voice that turned her stomach. The accent was Spanish, she thought, and dread pulsed through her, because hadn’t she heard an accent like that just recently?

‘Why?’ she demanded. She was still, perhaps unwisely, tugging back against him as he tried to steer her along. ‘I’m nobody important; nobody needs to speak to me.’

‘Nobody important?’ said another voice behind her – a different one, a familiar one which made her heart well up with relief as well as misery. ‘Fair Madame Bonacieux, do not say so!’

The man holding her cursed and turned to look at the newcomer, and Constance found herself face to face with not just Aramis, but Porthos, too. Aramis affected a gallant bow, but there was a crease of concern between his eyebrows. ‘Is this gentleman bothering you?’ he said, and at his side Porthos just glared at her assailant, menace pouring off him as charm poured off Aramis.

The man nudged her gently in the side with the pistol under his cloak.

‘No,’ said Constance, trying to sound cold and dismissive and praying that they knew her better than to be deterred.

Aramis had reached out and clasped her hand before the Spaniard could react. ‘We have been desolate in your absence!’ he was saying, and he pulled her towards him, stepping forward and spinning suddenly to break the Spaniard’s grip on her, kicking at the man’s arm just so, and the pistol clattered to the frozen mud of the street.

Porthos had moved, too, gripping the man by his arms, but suddenly there were other strangers filtering out of the crowd and one of them had brandished a sword at Porthos’ head. People nearby screamed when the weapons appeared, and suddenly it seemed that she was in the middle of a street brawl.

To her surprise, Aramis passed her his main gauche before drawing his sword. She remembered the time she had defended him and baby Henri with her swordplay and almost smiled, but, for heaven’s sake, it had been weeks since she’d picked up a sword, and street brawling was something else entirely, and what on earth was the idiot thinking?

Instinctively, she raised the weapon to block a thrust sent in their direction.

‘Constance, have you been starting a lot of fights since we saw you last?’ Aramis asked breathlessly, and she kicked him in the shin. She felt more herself than she had in a month.

There were more of them, though, she realised, and the man who had first accosted her was recovered and moving their way, his task easier now that the innocent market-goers had largely fled the area.

‘Aramis!’ Porthos yelled from somewhere behind them, and she felt one of them tug on her elbow. They dodged into an alley, Aramis leading her and Porthos behind them, hurling something large and heavy at the first man who tried to pursue. Her skirts were heavy around her legs as she ran, blindly following Aramis away from the market, in and out of a maze of streets and finally circling back to something more familiar. She realised at last that they had brought her back to her own house. Porthos came inside with her, and with some shock she realised he was checking for intruders _inside_ the house. Aramis ducked inside a moment later and pulled his hat off.

‘I’ve sent a boy to fetch Athos and d’Artagnan here,’ he announced.

Constance gaped at him, joy and panic seizing her stomach in equal measure at the thought of d’Artagnan coming here. Furiously, she rounded on him. ‘Why, for god’s sake?’

He exchanged a look with Porthos. ‘Because Constance, there were fifteen men at least in the marketplace trying to abduct you, and I am concerned that they may try again.’

‘You knew they were looking for me?’ she said angrily, turning slightly to let Porthos know that he, too, deserved some measure of her wrath.

‘We feared it,’ said Aramis, raising a conciliatory hand and edging towards her slowly as if she were a spooked horse.

She sat down heavily and pointed a stern finger at him. ‘You had better explain yourself,’ she said.

‘Gladly, but it would be better to wait for Athos and d’Artagnan,’ he replied. ‘They will be able to explain it better.’

She took a breath to object, but before she could she found herself taken by a sudden violent trembling as though a bucket of cold water had been dumped on her. Porthos sank onto the bench next to her, a large hand settling on her shoulder. ‘You’re alright,’ he told her softly.

Aramis crouched in front of her, holding up a cup of water. ‘We will protect you, Constance,’ he promised, his eyes lit with sincerity. She drank slowly and the trembling lessened.

‘They were Spaniards?’ she asked, hating the way her voice sounded thin and small.

‘Yes. You remember a Spanish envoy meeting with the queen recently?’

She nodded. The occasion was burned on her memory; she had been returning to the queen’s audience chamber with a fistful of dressmaker’s pins and had not until it was too late realised the conversation she was walking in on.

‘The man, it appears, was captured on his way home and gave himself up as a spy in the employ of the French court. In turn, men have been sent to find out precisely what he told the queen, and somehow they have acquired your name in the belief that you overheard the conversation.’ Aramis ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end.

Constance felt faint again, she was glad to be already sitting down. Porthos squeezed her shoulder. Aramis pressed the water into her hands and steadied her as she drank again.

Through the ringing in her ears, she heard voices outside.

‘This is all _my fault_ , Athos,’ d’Artagnan was protesting, ‘we should never have recommended Constance to the queen...’

Aramis swore and went quickly to the door. He ushered the other two musketeers indoors with a glare. Constance tried not to look up, and almost managed. She sneaked a glance, but d’Artagnan had already looked away, looking crushed, and sunk into a corner.

Athos and Aramis looked at one another and apparently communicated a great deal in this way, for Athos sat down and turned immediately to Constance.

‘Are you alright?’ he said.

She nodded. The shock was receding, and she felt alert and impatient. She heard d’Artagnan huff in relief.

‘I am very sorry that you have been caught up in this, Constance,’ said Athos seriously. ‘Do you know what it is they want you for?’

Her voice didn’t shake. ‘I overheard a conversation between the Spanish envoy and the queen,’ she told him. ‘While I was taking measurements for her Majesty’s dress...’

 ‘What is it that they think you know?’ Athos asked, leaning towards her across the table.

‘The discussion was about the locations of several spies employed by the French crown in Spain. I’m not sure I could remember all of it – but more than I _ought_ to know, I’m sure,’ Constance admitted.

He nodded sagely, and she felt Porthos, closest to her, shift uncomfortably. ‘Tell me about the attack this afternoon,’ said Athos.

She hesitated, thinking. ‘It seemed like he didn’t want to attract attention. The others didn’t appear until you, ah, retaliated,’ she suggested, looking at Porthos and Aramis in turn.

‘There were a lot of them, though,’ Porthos added. ‘Once they thought they’d have to fight us to get Constance, they weren’t so shy.’

‘What do you remember about them?’ Athos asked.

‘He had a Spanish accent. A black beard. Doesn’t wash regularly enough,’ Constance said, wrinkling her nose at the memory. ‘Shorter than any of you, but broader than all but Porthos. I don’t know. He wore a wool cloak; I don’t remember the colour.’

Athos exchanged a glance with d’Artagnan. ‘It sounds like Barreca,’ he said, and d’Artagnan hummed in agreement.

‘He’s the Spanish agent who captured the envoy. We met him when we extracted the spy, Lopez, from their camp a week ago,’ said Athos, gesturing to himself and d’Artagnan. ‘He’s a very dangerous man.’

‘Will they still be at the same camp?’ Aramis asked.

Athos shook his head. ‘No. I went to investigate when we heard about the threat to Constance. It’s abandoned.’

‘And it was this Lopez who gave them Constance’s name?’ Porthos demanded angrily. ‘I’d like to have a word with him about that.’

D’Artagnan shuddered noticeably in his corner. ‘He is indisposed,’ Athos said delicately, and Constance heard it for the colossal understatement that it was. She reached distractedly for the water again and Aramis passed it to her.

‘This Barreca and his men must have a base in Paris, or at least nearby,’ he reasoned, picking up a jug to refill the cup.

 ‘If they have become so bold, it is possible the queen is in danger as well,’ Athos said. ‘I need to inform the Captain about this.’

‘There were fifteen men at least in the marketplace, Athos,’ said Aramis. ‘That number of men should be traceable.’

‘Then that must be our next move,’ he agreed. Constance blinked in surprise as they all got to their feet, Porthos’ movement scraping the bench against the stone floor.

‘Somebody must stay with Constance,’ d’Artagnan said in a slightly strangled tone, hovering anxiously as they prepared to leave. She flinched. He was right of course, because if those men came back and tried to attack her again she would be glad to be in company with a musketeer, but God help her it was painful to be in the same room as him and not touch him; she hadn’t looked at the corner he stood in because if she did she was afraid she would not be able to look away.

Athos was looking thoughtfully at her. ‘D’Artagnan is right,’ he said. ‘We can’t be sure that they do not know where you live, Constance.’ Her throat tightened and she nodded. Athos turned. ‘Aramis, will you stay? We’ll return here as soon as we have news.’ Aramis nodded immediately, flashing her a quick smile and d’Artagnan a sympathetic glance. Constance did not look at d’Artagnan; at least,

 

she didn’t look until he had turned away and the others were shepherding him out the door. The set of his shoulders was dejected, and it made her want to hurry after him.

She turned to Aramis, trying to look normal. ‘Right, well, you just try not to get in my way too much,’ she told him firmly, trying to remember what she would be doing this afternoon had all this not happened. She had not picked up any of the things she needed at the market. Jacques would be furious. Before she could do anything at all, the door crashed open again and d’Artagnan was back.

‘What’s happened?’ she gasped, but he just stopped in front of her and held out his pistol.

‘I... take this, Constance. Just in case.’ She met his eyes for a second and felt a wrench in her stomach; she settled instead for staring at his chin. She took the pistol, though.  

‘Thank you,’ she said, and he nodded.

He looked at Aramis, and back to her, and muttered, ‘Be careful,’ then hurried off again, jogging to catch up with Porthos.

Aramis looked thoughtful, but for once had the restraint to keep his mouth shut.

She tried to get on with things. She compulsively rearranged everything in the cupboard. Aramis sat at the table looking tense and checking that his pistol was loaded every five minutes. When she realised this was getting her nowhere, she decided to sweep the floor. Apparently this was too much for his gallantry, for he lurched to his feet.

‘Constance, can I do anything to help?’

She raised an eyebrow at him. She considered passing the broom to him, just to see what he would do, but relented and put it aside. ‘No. I don’t feel like cleaning.’

She sat down opposite him. ‘I’m sorry I’ve no food to offer you,’ she said idiotically. He grinned at her.

‘Not at all. We interrupted you on your errands.’

‘My husband will not be impressed,’ she said wryly, and then realised that he might be back soon and if he found her entertaining a musketeer ‘not impressed’ would be an understatement. Aramis’ face said precisely what he thought of her husband, but he politely kept it to himself.

‘This will be over soon,’ he promised, ‘and you can get back to normal.’

She wanted to cry at the idea of getting back to normal. As terrifying as this was, waiting to hear about men who wanted to attack her, political intrigue and fighting in the street, it was different from sitting here alone, waiting for nobody but Jacques, with his sour resentment and his wounded pleas for attention. She avoided Aramis’ eye for so long that he sighed and stood up, pacing the length of the room. He stopped at the window and frowned.

‘What, what is it?’ she asked him immediately, but he raised a hand to silence her.

‘Probably nothing. I’m just going to look from upstairs.’

He disappeared, and she stood paralysed for a moment before going over to the window anyway. The street was quiet. There was somebody leaning against a porch across the street, somebody else loitering on the corner. Grown men, though, and why were they just hanging around rather than going about their business? She caught a movement and realised there was another – no, two more -  further along the street. Aramis clattered back down the stairs behind her.

‘God save us!’ she gasped, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the shutter. ‘They’re outside.’

Aramis cursed under his breath. He put a hand on her shoulder and tugged her away from the window. He chewed his lip pensively, fingers tracing the handle of his pistol.

‘We’ll have to move,’ he said at last. ‘They’ll overrun us if we stay here.’

She felt chilled by the way his mind turned to military tactics, how her home had become the site of a siege. She swallowed bravely and nodded. Going outside was a horrifying thought, but better maybe than being cornered here.

‘Where can we go?’ she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

‘The Garrison,’ he said. ‘We’ll commandeer the captain’s office. Anyone who wants to get to you there will have to cross a yard full of musketeers. With enough loaded pistols, you and I together could hold off an army from Treville’s balcony.’ He attempted a reassuring smile. Constance tried to return it. She gripped the pistol d’Artagnan had left and took a deep breath.

‘Tell me what to do,’ she said.

‘Is there a back door?’

They made for it, and Aramis stepped outside boldly. He took a few steps, his eyes swivelling to take in the shape of the alleyway and the possible sightlines, then he beckoned. She took his arm as if he were escorting her to a dance, and tucked her chin down into her shawl.

‘How many did you count out the front?’ she asked him quietly.

‘Six,’ he muttered, scarcely moving his lips. They walked fast, but no faster than any couple keen to get out of the cold might walk on a chilly afternoon.

She could feel the throbbing of her heart pulsing through her, from her toes to her head. She gripped the pistol more tightly, tucked under the shawl. Gripped Aramis with the other hand.

The alleyway opened out onto the broad thoroughfare that led south towards the river. It was busy enough to mingle in the crowd, though not so busy that they could disappear entirely. She caught a flicker of a dark cloak and hissed in shock. She reminded herself that it was winter and any man might wear a dark cloak and it didn’t make him a Spanish agent. Aramis tensed beside her and she wondered if he’d seen the same thing.

‘Let’s get off the main street,’ he muttered, steering her towards a grubby-looking alleyway.

They slipped out of sight. The buildings were close enough to one another that the light dimmed considerably. ‘I don’t like this,’ she said, and he hummed reassuringly.

‘It’s not far,’ he muttered.

Then the strip of brighter light where the alley opened again onto a boulevard darkened and she realised it was because two men had blocked it. It could be anyone, she reminded herself again, but Aramis had stopped abruptly and was turning for an even narrower path to the left, and then somebody loomed out of there as well.

‘ _Hijo de puta_ ,’ he hissed, letting go of her hand to reach for his sword. ‘Constance, when I say, shoot.’

Her stomach lurched, and she nodded. The man to their left was close enough to make out his features, and Aramis hissed ‘ _Now.’_

She shot him in the neck and the mess was terrible. Aramis lunged away from her and she heard his sword ring out as the two other men attacked him. She backed away, unarmed now that the pistol was fired, and cursed herself for not thinking this through properly.

Aramis killed one of the men and focused his attention on the other. He fought elegantly, she thought distractedly; it could be like watching a dance if you could ignore the brutality of it.

A footstep behind her made her spin, and she saw two more men approaching, and with a jolt she realised that one of them was the man Athos had called Barreca. She held the pistol by the barrel and hit him clumsily with it. He swore and slapped her, and in shock she staggered and he grabbed hold of her.

She looked at Aramis. He had frozen mid-swing and was staring at her. The man he had been fighting extended a sword towards him threateningly. The other, who had arrived with Barreca, moved towards him as well.

The barrel of the gun was bitterly cold against her temple. She’d fired enough shots now to know it would get very hot, very quickly, if it was fired. She wondered if she’d survive long enough to notice.

‘Put down your weapons,’ said Barreca, his voice uncomfortably close to her ear.

There was a crash as Aramis threw his sword and dagger to the ground.

She forced herself to focus and met his eyes; they were wide with shock and guilt and fear. ‘Constance, I’m sorry,’ he whispered. She just stared at him, trembling.

‘Kneel,’ said Barreca.

Aramis hesitated.

‘You won’t kill me,’ Constance snapped suddenly, turning scornful eyes on the men surrounding them. ‘They won’t kill me,’ she repeated, looking at Aramis again. He shook his head mutely, both hands raised in supplication.

‘We will _hurt_ you,’ Barreca hissed in her ear, his breath hot and foetid on the side of her face. She squirmed in his grip. Aramis dropped heavily to his knees

‘Don’t-‘ he said sharply, and one of the men punched him in the mouth before he could continue. His head rocked back, and it took him a second to regain his equilibrium. Neatly, he turned and spat a small amount of blood onto the ground.

Constance felt the gun pulled back from her face at last, and the grip on her neck relaxed slightly. ‘All right. Take Madame Bonacieux and lock her in the basement.’

Constance felt sick with panic. Aramis was watching her shrewdly, his eyes flitting around the alleyway in search of an opening. Someone tugged on her arm and she lost eye contact with him, and Barreca’s voice added, ‘We don’t need the musketeer. Kill him.’

‘No!’ she cried raggedly, jolting automatically back towards him.

One man had grabbed a handful of Aramis’ hair and yanked his head back, exposing the line of his throat to the dagger held under his jaw by the other man. Constance met his eyes again for a second before he let them fall closed in defeat.

Her mind flooded with horror. She imagined Aramis – charming, teasing Aramis - dead in the street because he had stayed to protect her. She imagined them finding him, lying in his blood – imagined d’Artagnan, Athos and Porthos stumbling on the body and knowing he died on her account - she could never look them in the eye again.

She grabbed a fistful of Barreca’s coat. ‘No, please!’

He laughed, holding up a hand to restrain his men. ‘What’s this, Madame Bonacieux? I thought you were a respectable married woman?’

She blinked in confusion, too afraid to follow his insinuation.

‘I think you are in love with this musketeer, eh?’ he cast a critical eye over Aramis, still kneeling on the frozen ground. She shook her head in denial without releasing her grip on his coat.

‘Bring the musketeer,’ said Barreca. ‘I think he might be useful after all.’

Constance spun to watch the knife move away from Aramis’ throat, needing to be sure. He opened his eyes and looked at her, conveying gratitude, fear, concern and friendship before the man behind him cracked him hard on the head with the hilt of his dagger and he slumped to the ground.

It did not seem far to the house they dragged her to, and they kept to the quiet alleys – necessarily, since carrying an unconscious musketeer would look suspicious on the busy street. The house looked like a thousand others in Paris and her heart sank. Even if they were only streets away from the garrison, how would Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan ever find this house among so many others? They threw her into the cellar and Aramis with her, returning to lock heavy irons onto his wrists, though he was still out cold.

Aramis came round some time later, sprawled on the dirt floor. Constance saw his forehead contract in discomfort and shuffled over.

‘Aramis?’ she said.

He groaned and rolled over, opening his eyes in surprise when the movement produced a rattle of chains and he found his hands shackled heavily in front of him. She held out a hand to help and pulled him into a sitting position. He raised his eyebrows when he noticed that her hands were free.

Constance shrugged. ‘They are very afraid of you,’ she said ruefully.

‘Then they have severely underestimated you,’ he replied, smiling. She wondered fleetingly if there were any circumstances so dire that they would curtail Aramis’ smile; since their current predicament seemed not to do so, Constance hoped that she would never see such an eventuality. He turned serious. ‘Constance, are you alright?’

‘I’m fine. At least, I’m not hurt.’

He nodded. ‘I owe you my life,’ he said lightly.

She blushed. ‘Well, you’re welcome,’ she said, and he smiled again.

He raised a hand towards his head and grunted in frustration when the chains prevented him.

‘Is your head hurting?’ she said. ‘I looked at it; there’s some blood, but not much.’

‘It’s alright,’ he said, frowning. ‘How long was I unconscious?’

She calculated. ‘Nearly an hour. We’ve been here half that.’

He stood and paced the room. It was maybe six feet by ten, lit only by the grate in the top of the door, and unfurnished except for a rickety-looking wooden chair that Constance had ignored in favour of crouching on the floor next to her fallen protector.

‘These are heavy,’ Aramis said, gesturing with the chains.

‘They look it,’ she agreed, but he looked thoughtful. She realised what he had in mind a moment later when footsteps echoed on the stairs and he pressed himself against the wall beside the door.

When it opened, he swung both arms like he was throwing a discus and smashed his chained wrists into Barreca’s chin. He surged forwards, kicking the disoriented man in the knee. Constance had no weapon on her, but she picked up the chair and when Aramis stepped back she threw it at Barreca’s chest.

The Spaniard’s yell had summoned no less than four of his men, and they were blocking the only escape route. One of them fired a shot that went wide of Aramis’ head, but only just. He struggled wildly when they surrounded him, but the chains limited him severely and he went down, taking several brutal kicks to the ribs in the process. They hauled him to his knees and held him there. Another grabbed Constance’s arms and pulled them painfully behind her back. Slowly, Barreca recovered and pushed himself to his feet, bleeding from a cut on his jaw made by Aramis’ chains.

‘That was foolish, Madame,’ he hissed, too close to her face again. She recoiled from him in disgust. ‘You’ll pay for this.’

She tried to steel herself, but he turned away from her.

Aramis was dishevelled but not obviously wounded. His doublet was hanging open, revealing the ornate crucifix he always wore around his neck. Barreca said something furiously in Spanish and unexpectedly, Aramis laughed.

Barreca’s eyes narrowed and he shot a question at Aramis, who answered him in the same language.

‘He doesn’t like the chains, this musketeer,’ Barreca said, turning to Constance. ‘Do you think he’ll prefer something else?’

Before she could answer, one of the men restraining him had kicked Aramis in the back and he dropped forwards onto his hands to keep from collapsing on his face. Barreca crouched, seized Aramis’ right hand, and drove the point of his dagger straight through his palm and into the ground below it. Aramis choked out a terrible, terrible sound, dropping his weight onto his forearms. Barreca pulled the dagger free with a flourish and blood dripped from it in an arc; one of the other men kicked Aramis and he collapsed onto his side, coiled around his hand. Constance’s knees buckled and only the bruising grip on her arms kept her upright.

Barreca waved the bloody dagger in her face. ‘Now then, Madame. I need you to tell me every word that passed between Lopez and the queen. Tell me now, yes? You can see what happens if you don’t.’

‘I don’t know what –‘ she began tightly, and he slapped her hard across the face. Her cheek burned, and her eyes watered.

‘None of that. Now.’

‘I – I can’t remember everything...’ The man behind her shook her roughly. ‘I’m a seamstress, I didn’t... didn’t understand,’ she gasped. Her jaw ached from the blow, and it felt like she was talking thickly, her lip swelling.

A younger man hurried into the basement room, looking anxious, and muttered something in Spanish in Barreca’s ear. He scowled at him and then turned back to Constance for a long moment and hissed in frustration. ‘You need longer to remember?’ Barreca demanded abruptly. ‘You like this dark little room, want to stay here a little while longer, yes? I have time.’ He leered at her, lurching forwards to grab at her with a cold hand.

 ‘I will come every hour and poke another hole in your pet musketeer until you remember something useful, do you understand me?’ Barreca said, holding her painfully by the chin. 

Aramis had uncoiled himself and choked an objection from the floor, but it was ignored, and Constance nodded as best she could with Barreca holding her face. He released her roughly and left the room, and the others followed. One of them spat on Aramis’ doublet as he left.

She stood paralysed listening to the bolts on the door slam into place again, and then jolted herself out of it and threw herself to her knees beside Aramis.

‘It’s alright, Constance; it’s fine,’ he grunted, trying to rearrange his limbs.

She reached out for his injured hand and he reluctantly produced it for her inspection. ‘They did it so you wouldn’t be able to fight,’ she mumbled.

‘I can fight with the other,’ he assured her, more or less irrelevantly since he was still chained and they were still locked in the cellar. Somewhat regretfully, she tore a swathe of her russet skirt off and wound it around his wound.

‘What are we going to do?’ she asked miserably.

‘Keep calm. The others will most likely find us soon.’ She nodded, but she did not feel too sure. He had been unconscious on the way here and hadn’t seen the perfectly innocuous house, the copy of every other one on the street.

‘I can’t wait to tell d’Artagnan how you hit Barreca with a chair,’ said Aramis, somehow managing to make the hoarseness of his voice sound like honest awe rather than pain. She sobbed out a laugh, and before she could stop herself it had turned into a real sob, shaking her whole body.

He shuffled closer and gripped both of her hands, looking her determinedly in the eye. ‘Constance, I will not allow them to hurt you.’ She looked away but he moved with her to keep the eye contact.

‘Do you believe me?’ he said anxiously.

She looked back at him, her lips pressed tightly together, and shook her head. She felt the moment that tears spilled over and slipped down her cheeks in two warm lines.

Awkwardly, Aramis slipped his chained hands over her head and cradled her against his shoulder.


	2. Chapter 2

Barreca was as good as his word, and an hour later he was back.

She was pulled away from Aramis and dropped into the chair, which she was surprised to find did not collapse beneath her. A man stood behind her, gripping her shoulders painfully.

‘Let’s begin with an easy question,’ said Barreca, pacing in front of her and spinning a knife in his hands. ‘Do you remember a meeting between the queen and a man named Lopez?’

She nodded mutely. It did not seem worth denying it.

‘Why were you at this meeting?’

‘By accident. I am the queen’s dressmaker.’

He sneered at her derisively and she looked back with all the insolent calm she could muster.

‘Indeed. And what did Lopez have to tell the queen?’

She fidgeted, trying to appear innocent and frightened, and hoping that he had forgotten that an hour ago she had attacked him with the very chair she now sat in. ‘Monsieur,’ she said, doing her best impression of a silly, trivial shopgirl, ‘I am afraid I did not understand their discussion.’

He met her eyes squarely and made an impatient gesture. Across the room, Aramis shifted forwards on his knees. There was a tense moment of silence.

‘Did they mention any names that you recall?’ said Barreca with poorly disguised impatience.

Constance flinched, a litany of names chasing one another around her head. She could lie, make something up, she could play dumb again, she could tell them the truth and let men and women she had never met pay the price far away in Spain. Involuntarily, her eyes flicked to Aramis and he shook his head almost imperceptibly.

‘I don’t recall any names,’ she said firmly, knowing the lie was transparent. Dread swirled around her. Barreca growled in fury.

‘What would help your memory?’ he spat at her. At his gesture, two of his men hauled Aramis to his feet and Constance jolted forwards, struggling against the hands holding her. ‘I made it clear what would happen if your memory didn’t improve.’

‘It’s the truth!’ she lied frantically. He laughed bitterly.

‘Another paper cut won’t do any good, Madame Bonacieux is too hardy a soul to be disturbed by such things,’ Barreca mused, standing in front of Aramis and making a show of considering. He flipped the knife in his fingers again.

Aramis said something in Spanish that sounded distinctly uncomplimentary.

Barreca flinched angrily and lurched forwards, stabbing downwards into Aramis’ shoulder. Still holding the hilt of the knife, he turned to face Constance.

She couldn’t see Aramis’ face around him, but she could hear his breath coming in harsh pants. The vision she’d had earlier returned to her, of his body in the street, Athos and Porthos paralysed with grief. Would d’Artagnan weep? Would he forgive her? It wouldn’t matter. She would not forgive herself.

‘Madame Bonacieux, I must ask you again,’ said Barreca, his voice trembling with tamped-down anger. ‘For those names.’

She pressed her lips together. She wasn’t sure whether this strategy was to keep herself from telling or to keep from breaking down in sobs. In her head, she watched d’Artagnan’s eyes grow cold and distant, watched accusation bleed into his warm face and turn it hard.

She broke out of her thoughts at Aramis’ strangled sob of pain, and realised that Barreca had _twisted_ the knife in his body. ‘ _Stop_!’ she blurted. He raised a hand, glaring at her expectantly.

‘It was Barreca,’ she said wildly, madly. ‘Barreca was the name they said, they said he was a spy working for France against Spain, and a traitor, they said, they said...’ she gasped, sagging in the chair.

She wasn’t sure what had inspired her to say it. Barreca looked stunned, and she realised he had never introduced himself, she had just taken Athos’ word for it that this was his name. It seemed to have worked, if only to distract them. The other men were looking just a shade uncomfortable, if she wasn’t imagining it, and the grip on her shoulders had lessened.

Barreca took back his knife, ignoring the huff of pain it elicited from Aramis. ‘We will discuss this,’ he hissed at his men, shooing them out of the room. ‘You _will_ tell me the truth,’ he hissed at Constance. ‘Do not think you can fool me.’

He swept out of the room.

‘Oh, God,’ said Constance, staggering forwards. Aramis slumped forwards and she caught him, her fingers on his slack face, her hand splayed on his chest. ‘Oh, God.’ She stared hopelessly at the blood, dark and seeping across his shirt so fast, too fast.

He exhaled raggedly, suddenly looking very young as the pain stripped him of all the charm and the teasing and the bravado. ‘Please,’ said Constance, though she was not sure what she was pleading for. He was heavy and she couldn’t hold him up so she tried to lower him down gently. He shuddered at the movement, blinking hard.

‘Con- Constance,’ he said at last, looking up at her from the ground.

‘Do not tell me it is alright,’ she snapped, surprising herself with her ferocity. ‘I am sick of being told everything is alright when it isn’t.’

He nodded obediently. ‘I need...’ he began, and stopped to gulp a mouthful of air. ‘I need you to press on it. On the wound. Constance.’

She tugged at her ruined petticoats and tore a long strip off, bunched it up and pressed it on his shoulder. He wheezed urgently and flinched and she almost let go, but he said sharply ‘No. It’s good. Press harder, if you can.’

She tried. She pressed until her arms ached, and felt the fabric become damp with blood under her hands. There were tears drying on her face and her jaw hurt from the earlier slap. She fixed her gaze on Aramis’ hands, limp on his stomach in their heavy shackles, one of them bound up with another scrap of her good skirt. His hands were shaking. He must be afraid, she thought.

His breathing evened slowly. For a while, neither of them spoke, and then Aramis quietly broke the silence.

‘Constance,’ he said, ‘since it seems likely that I will take the answer to my grave, will you allow me an impertinent question?’

She looked, a little frantically, from his shaking bloody hand to his face. She did not want to have this conversation with him, but he was the one bleeding and if this was the distraction he chose, so be it.

‘If you promise _not_ to go to your grave,’ she said, pressing harder on the wound, ‘I will answer you.’

‘Are you still in love with d’Artagnan?’ he croaked, as she had known he would.

‘Would it change anything if I said yes?’ she sighed.

He shook his head hard enough to make his hair fall in his eyes. She wanted to smooth it back, but her hands were bloody and she dared not take one of them off his shoulder. ‘He loves you,’ he mumbled, and she nodded, stifling a sob.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Did he tell you what happened?’

‘No. He didn’t want to talk about it, so we’ve just been trying to distract him.’

Constance did not ask what passed for distraction among the musketeers. She suspected it involved drinking, gambling and getting into fights; if it turned out to include the arms of a willing barmaid or maidservant she was not sure she could bear it, though she knew she had no right to object.

‘It’s... Jacques,’ she said, in a very tiny voice. ‘He can’t manage without me.’

Aramis’ lips twitched in annoyance. ‘He doesn’t deserve you,’ he said bluntly, ‘you know that.’

She couldn’t hold the sob back this time. Aramis must have felt the shudder in her arms for he winced and he sounded breathless when he hurriedly apologised.

‘I am sorry. That was unworthy of me.’ The courtly manners, in this place, in this situation, were so ridiculous that she felt her tears well up anew. ‘Just – just make me one promise, Constance.’

She looked him in the eye and nodded.

‘Remember that you deserve happiness, as much as he does.’ She wasn’t sure if the ‘he’ referred to was Jacques or d’Artagnan. Before she could ask him, he had pressed his eyes and lips closed to hold back a wave of pain.

‘Shhh,’ she said. ‘I promise. I promise.’ She tried to put the force of her promise into the pressure on his shoulder, hoping perhaps to remind him that he had made her a promise, too, several in fact, but most recently he had promised her that he would stay alive.

When she heard footsteps on the stairs again she wanted to wilt in despair, but she maintained her steady pressure and didn’t even look up at the door. When she heard d’Artagnan bellowing her name somewhere above them, she wondered briefly if she had gone mad.

It hardly mattered, and she answered him anyway, just in case he turned out not to be a hallucination. ‘Here!’ she screamed hoarsely. ‘We’re down here!’

‘Constance!’

D’Artagnan’s face appeared at the grate, and she heard him scramble to release the bolts on the door. ‘Athos! Porthos, they’re here!’ he called up the stairs, and then he was inside, crouching beside her, his gentle hands on her back and her hair. She couldn’t reach for him, but she leaned back into his touch without thinking, mumbling ‘thank you’ and ‘I’m sorry’ and tiny wordless exclamations.

The other two arrived minutes later, both holding their swords and out of breath from fighting.

‘ _Jesus_ – Aramis,’ Porthos choked, and Constance realised that Aramis’ eyes were closed and there was blood all over both of them. The vision came back to her again, except it was here in front of her, now – Aramis bloody on the floor and the others grieving and her fault, all her fault.

‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped, still dizzy with horror and relief.

‘Constance it’s alright, you can let him go,’ d’Artagnan was saying in her ear. She shook her head hard because she wasn’t sure even _physically_ that she could, but he pulled her away with ease. She slumped against him, her bloody hands smearing her face as she wept, still stammering apologies. D’Artagnan rocked her and held her close, apparently at a loss. There was some activity behind her, but she couldn’t bring herself to face the vision again, so she stayed in d’Artagnan’s arms and waited for him to push her away when he realised that what had happened to Aramis was her fault. Somebody fled the room and returned shouting something about a key, and then she heard the chains rattle as they were pulled off Aramis’ body. The conversation around her seemed distant and incomprehensible, overwhelmed by the forces of horror and shock.

‘Constance was wonderful,’ a hoarse voice was saying behind her. ‘You should have seen her, d’Artagnan. She was incredible.’

‘Good, good.’ That was Athos, distracted. ‘Hold still, you fool.’

‘She hit him with a chair,’ said the first voice, somewhat dreamily.

‘Always impressed by violent women, our Aramis,’ Porthos murmured, amused.

D’Artagnan shifted around her, but only far enough to look down at her face. ‘Did you really?’

‘What?’ she gasped, coming back to herself slightly when she realised he was talking to her.

‘Aramis says you hit Barreca with a chair,’ he said brightly.

‘Aramis?’ said Constance stupidly, and she turned at last to see him sitting on the floor propped against Porthos and smiling wearily at her while Athos tied her makeshift bandage around his shoulder. Reality came back to her in a rush and she staggered against d’Artagnan.

‘Constance?’ he said anxiously. ‘I think she’s going to swoon.’

She righted herself and kicked him in the ankle. ‘I am _not_ going to swoon,’ she said firmly. She heard Porthos laugh.

‘You should have been a musketeer, Madame,’ he said slyly.

‘I wish I’d seen you hit him with a chair,’ d’Artagnan said, grinning.

‘I’ll show you if you like,’ she threatened. He looked delighted.

‘Right, let’s get him up,’ Athos said grimly, pulling Aramis’ good arm round his shoulders. Porthos braced him on the other side, and between them they levered him to his feet. He looked pale and sick at the change in elevation, but he smiled at her. ‘There’s a cart outside, we’ll take you back to the garrison in that,’ Athos continued, supporting him slowly towards the door. ‘D’Artagnan, call for the surgeon.’

D’Artagnan nodded but did not let go of Constance, holding her hand as they walked in slow procession out of the house to where Treville was waiting with a cart, several more musketeers, and a handful of prisoners from the raid on the house. She avoided their eyes studiously.

Nobody offered to take her home, and she was grateful for it, happier to go back with them to the garrison, keeping close to d’Artagnan’s reassuring presence. She climbed into the cart next to Aramis, who was just scarcely still awake, and having at last washed the blood from her hands she stroked his hair soothingly as they made their way back.

The surgeon came, stitched Aramis’ wounds and sternly prescribed rest and nourishing broth and no spirits or exertion. He examined Constance’s bruises sympathetically but told her they’d heal on their own. Some time later, once Aramis was sleeping under Porthos’ watchful eye and Athos had discreetly taken himself off on some vital errand, she found herself sitting at the table in the yard next to d’Artagnan, drinking wine so bad it made her eyes water.

She took a gulp and pulled a face at him. ‘This is horrible,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe you drink this.’ She took another mouthful.

He was watching her, wearing a sad little smile that she couldn’t bear to look at, so she buried her face in the wine again.

Eventually she couldn’t avoid looking at him any longer.

‘Constance – ‘

‘Please don’t apologise. None of this was your fault.’

He closed his mouth and nodded. ‘Your husband will be wondering where you are,’ he said listlessly, and they both flinched.

‘D’Artagnan... I missed you.’

He laughed bitterly. ‘Not half so much as I missed you. I’ve been an absolute misery. Just ask the others.’

‘I did,’ she said gently. There was another pause. She considered the wine, but decided against it this time. She spoke quickly. ‘I promised Aramis I would think about my own happiness, not just my husband’s. I’m... I’m not sure what that will mean. I can’t just leave him, you know that. But do you think... do you think you might come and visit, when he’s away, sometimes? I could cook for you all. I dread to think what the food’s like here if this is what you’re all drinking...’ She realised she was rambling and trailed off, avoiding his eye.

His hands were gentle on her neck, and he raised her lips to his very slowly and reverently. When at last they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers and sighed.

‘I had a horrible, horrible day today, d’Artagnan,’ she mumbled, clutching at his collar. ‘I was so afraid, I didn’t know what to do.’

‘Aramis said you were extraordinary,’ d’Artagnan reminded her, and she blushed.

‘He’s all talk,’ she said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. ‘It was awful. I was frightened, and useless.’

‘Constance, you’re the bravest person I ever met. You saved Aramis’ life today. He’s going to tell the story to everyone who stands still long enough. Treville will most likely offer you a commission in the regiment.’

She snorted a laugh. ‘You’re an idiot,’ she said, pulling him closer. ‘You’re all idiots.’

D’Artagnan grinned. ‘That’s why we need you,’ he said.  

 

Athos took her home in the early hours of the morning. Jacques was sitting at the table staring moodily into an empty cup, with a similarly empty bottle of wine beside him. He looked up when she entered, and she saw relief cross his face before his eyes hardened into anger as Athos followed her.

‘What’s the meaning of this?’ he slurred, drawing himself up imperiously.

Athos stepped forward smartly to offer him a terse explanation, shielding her from him bodily.

‘Damn you,’ Jacques was mumbling, pawing clumsily at the front of Athos’ jacket. ‘Damn you, you put my wife in danger. You stay away from my wife.’ Athos detached himself from the drunk man, his lip curling in disgust.

‘You are drunk, Monsieur,’ Athos told him steadily. ‘I suggest you go to bed.’

Jacques collapsed heavily into a chair and scowled blearily at them both for a moment before slumping back.

‘Will you be alright, Constance?’ said Athos, turning back to her. He hovered, hesitating to leave, but she could see that he was anxious to return to his injured friend.

‘Yes,’ she said gently. ‘Go.’

He didn’t look entirely convinced.

‘I just need to sleep,’ she assured him.

After Athos had gone, she threw a blanket over Jacques where he sat and went upstairs alone. She slept badly, waking with a jolt after vague, bloody nightmares. She could smell the echo of Barreca’s foul breath as she woke up and the dream faded. When she slept again it was fitful. She dreamed herself back into the dark basement room, standing over a crumpled body on the floor. The door crashed open, and she reached out towards d’Artagnan as he burst in, but he shrank away from her touch. Looking down, she realised why: her hands were soaked in dark blood, glistening with it from fingertip to elbow. When she looked again, it was d’Artagnan on the floor, run through protecting her, and Aramis standing opposite, smiling with a cold, dead face.

When she woke again the sun was high in the sky. She went downstairs and found Jacques cradling his head in his hands.

‘Constance, I’m sorry,’ he said immediately, looking up. ‘ _Mon Dieu_ , I am so sorry, I thought I had lost you again, can you forgive me?’

‘Hush,’ she said distractedly. ‘I am quite alright.’ She patted him absently on the arm. ‘I must go to the garrison this morning,’ she said firmly, and he flinched as if she’d hit him.

‘You’re going back to them,’ he croaked, desolate.

She shook her head. ‘One of the musketeers was hurt defending me yesterday, and I must see if he’s alright.’

He glowered. ‘D’Artagnan,’ he said darkly.

She clamped down a rush of irritation. ‘No,’ she said again. She turned away. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she told him, and left him to his hangover.

When she reached the garrison, she found Porthos crossing the yard, his posture stiff with exhaustion. He looked surprised to see her.

‘Constance, have you slept? You look awful,’ he blurted, and then blushed faintly. ‘Not awful. I mean...’

‘I slept a little,’ Constance interrupted. ‘You look awful, as well. Are you...? Is Aramis...?’

He sighed. ‘He’s feverish, and weak. It was a rough night.’

Constance paled. ‘Can I help?’ she said, feeling a cold shudder of guilt in her stomach. Porthos took her hand with surprising gentleness.

‘None of this was your fault, Constance. Come on, let’s go see him.’

In the corridor of the barracks they met d’Artagnan, looking as wrung out as Porthos and carrying a bowl of water. ‘Constance!’ he greeted her happily. ‘Aramis was asking for you earlier,’ he added, pushing the door open with his elbow.

Athos was slumped in the room’s only chair, but he stood to take the bowl from d’Artagnan. He put it down on the floor and pulled the cloth from Aramis’ forehead to soak it with cold water, wring it out and put it back in place. Aramis’ eyelids flickered faintly in response, but he seemed scarcely conscious, sprawled on his back, pale and sweaty, his jaw tensed in discomfort.

He looked up at her. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ Athos assured her. ‘The wounds were cleaned and stitched early enough, it’s just that he bled too much and he’ll be weak for a while.’ It was more or less what the physician had said the night before, and by the sound of it Athos repeated it as much to remind himself as her. His forehead was lined with concern.

‘Have any of you slept at all?’ she demanded, and they all looked vaguely sheepish. ‘Let me sit with him, so you can get some sleep,’ she insisted. ‘You all look awful.’ She saw Porthos half-smile at that, but they all hesitated to leave the room.

‘Constance, are you sure...?’ d’Artagnan started.

She nodded. Athos shifted apologetically. ‘We’ve known men to just stop breathing, if they lose too much blood in a battle. There’s an old soldier’s superstition that if you stop watching a wounded man, the fates snatch him when your eyes are averted.’

She startled at the sincerity of that, glancing down at Aramis in the bed and back up at the others. She gripped the chair Athos had vacated with one hand and shook it lightly. ‘Well, if anyone comes bearing him ill-will, you can see that I’m armed. And you won’t be far away.’

Athos still looked hesitant, but Porthos put a hand on his shoulder and gave him one of those complicated looks they used to communicate wordlessly.

‘Try to make him drink something,’ said Porthos as they withdrew.

When they had gone, she wondered why she had suddenly felt so urgently that she needed to be alone with Aramis. He hadn’t stirred yet. She sat down, touching her fingertips gently to the back of his hand. His sleeping face looked young, and she wondered for the first time how old he really was. With all their battle stories and the places they’d been, the musketeers always seemed a great deal older than Constance herself. But perhaps the difference was just a mask they put on when they woke up. D’Artagnan didn’t have it yet, quite.

She still couldn’t have said precisely why she was here. It wasn’t just that she needed to check on his health, or thank him, or apologize. She’d felt her relationship to the musketeers shift somehow with the events of the day before, and wanted to be sure she hadn’t imagined it.

She startled when Aramis moved.

‘Athos?’ he mumbled.

‘It’s me,’ she said, leaning forwards so that he could see her. ‘I told them to go and get some sleep.’

He squinted at her. ‘Constance?’

‘That’s right.’ She reached for the jug standing on the table and poured a cup of water.

‘Are you well?’ His voice was quiet but not particularly shaky. She nodded, feeling unaccountably tearful, and held the cup to his lips. He raised his eyebrows at her.

‘Porthos said you should drink something,’ she told him. ‘And I agree.’

He took a few sips and allowed his head to fall back onto the pillows.

‘For his majesty’s finest soldiers, they do have a remarkable tendency to become a pack of old women at times like this,’ he sighed.

She raised an eyebrow at him. ‘If by “old women” you mean they suddenly and inexplicably become sensible, then I’m afraid I’m in favour,’ she said wryly, and he grinned.

‘Though they clearly needed you to remind them to sleep,’ he mused, looking approvingly at her.

All of them, she thought, were afflicted with a ludicrous double standard when it came to their own well-being relative to everyone else’s. It might have been endearing if it did not lead to so many misguided attempts at stoicism that ended with someone unconscious. At least d’Artagnan had not learned _that_ trick from the musketeers, she thought. He had already been an idiot in that regard when she met him. Bad influence they undoubtedly were, but she was thankful for them nonetheless.

‘You haven’t slept either, by the look of it,’ he admonished her, looking shrewdly at her from the bed.

‘I have. Though not... well,’ she admitted.

He shifted laboriously in the bed, propping himself up so he could see her better. ‘Sometimes when something happens like that – if you think you’ll die, or you are afraid you will... it can be hard to sleep, afterwards. It can feel like... letting go of something. Control, maybe. Or just... life. I know the feeling.’

His eyes looked haunted by something she didn’t want to ask about – d’Artagnan had told her a little of what had happened with the man named Marsac, she knew enough to know it wasn’t a wound he’d want prodded. But he wasn’t distant; he was looking at her seriously and kindly, and on instinct she wrapped her fingers gently around his bandaged hand. 

‘I never really thought that I would die,’ she said softly. ‘It sounds silly. They would... maybe they would have killed me, if I didn’t tell them anything, or if I did and they didn’t need me any longer.’

He squeezed her fingers, though it must have hurt him to do it with his hand injured as it was. ‘Constance...’ he started.

‘I kept thinking they would kill _you,_ ’ she said, trying very hard to keep her voice steady. ‘It was all I could see – for a moment just at the end, you had your eyes closed, and I thought...’ She broke off to catch her breath. Aramis looked agonized, as if he was aching to comfort her but did not know how to do it. ‘This is awful,’ she said, once she could speak again, forcing herself to look into his eyes. ‘But I kept thinking if they killed you, then the others would blame me. They wouldn’t mean to, but they would, and then I’d – ‘

She bit her lips hard to suppress anything else. ‘I’m a musketeer,’ he said softly. ‘If it had come to that – I would have died gladly if it meant that you were safe. D’Artagnan would understand that.’

He had missed the point. She fixed her eyes on the ceiling while she composed herself.

‘I know,’ she sighed. They both fell silent, and she made him drink more water just for something to do.

He seemed to be struggling not to fall asleep again, and she felt another unwelcome rush of guilt. The promise she’d made him while they were locked in Barreca’s cellar was still playing on her mind. When she’d lain awake between nightmares she had tried to think about what might constitute her own happiness, within the limits of her marriage, her modest income from dressmaking and her respectability.  She resented those things enough that she’d started treating everything in her life as a bitter compromise, and perhaps the events of yesterday had given her perspective.

‘Will you help me work on my shooting, Aramis?’ she asked him softly. ‘Just in case it happens again?’

His gaze cleared of the doubt and concern which had clouded it. ‘I’d be honoured,’ he told her fondly. He was half-asleep, but she would hold him to the promise.


End file.
